


Once, I ran away to sea (but now I'm home again)

by sirona



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: #coulsonlives, Angst, Discussion of Major Character Death, Established Relationship, Fix-It, Fluff, Forgiveness, Happy Ending, M/M, Pheeeeels, Phil is so in the doghouse, Pining, Reconciliation, so in love these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-06
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-12-04 12:06:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/710606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirona/pseuds/sirona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is being punished, he knows that. Punished for choosing duty over his own self-care; punished for thinking that if he could just take out Loki, or at least contain him, he would dramatically improve the chance of getting Clint back alive, mostly unharmed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once, I ran away to sea (but now I'm home again)

**Author's Note:**

> Just something short and angsty (and very fluffy, and very full of Pheeeeels) that occured to me one morning a few days ago. Evidently almost a year had to go by and I had to have the reassurance of #CoulsonLives to write something like this. Um.
> 
> Thank you to those who followed along and cheered me on, you know who you are. ♥

His bed, Phil thinks as he flops around for the third time in the past ten minutes, needs a new mattress. This one has grown lumpy and uncomfortable in the time since Clint stopped sleeping on the other side of it, a familiar, cherished weight that Phil’s arms miss like a part of him has been hacked off and refuses to regrow.

It’s been that way since the Battle of New York; it’s been “Barton,” and “Sir,” and “Sorry, sir, can’t right now, team bonding exercise. I was told it was your orders,” and that faint tang of borderline-insubordinate cocky belligerence that Phil had thought—had _hoped_ , let’s call things by their proper names—he would never hear directed at _him_.

He is being punished, he knows that. Punished for choosing duty over his self-care; punished for thinking that if he could just take out Loki, or at least contain him, he would dramatically improve the chance of getting Clint back alive, mostly unharmed. Punished for valuing Clint’s life more than his own – basically for what Clint would off-handedly classify as “Being fucking stupid, sir,” seeing as Phil isn’t in the habit of broadcasting just how fast, how deep he’d fallen for the mouthy asshole that had crawled under his skin and refused to come out. Phil hadn’t wanted to make him feel like he had to give anything in return – it’s not his fault that Phil is an idiot who is fucking stupid over _him_.

But. Phil can’t ignore the evidence, either – it very much looks like _he_ is the blind one, if he’s been missing the signs for _this_ long. A person who didn’t care, a category he’d made the mistake of assuming Clint belonged to, would have simply clapped him on the shoulder and told him they were pleased Phil made it after all. They would not spend days thinking up ever cleverer ways of avoiding him, disappearing behind a corner the very moment Phil looked up from his files, yet lingering in that spot for long enough that Phil could still smell the distinctive scent of bow resin and gun oil in the unmoving, closed-in air. Phil has to give it to him. Clint’s revenge is hellishly effective, if the aching, persistent lump of loneliness in Phil’s chest is anything to go by. 

He misses more than Clint’s presence in his bed, is the crux of it. He misses their talks, the easy intimacy, the trust Clint kept slaying him with, sharing himself with Phil in ways that now, in hindsight, seem overwhelmingly obvious, scream of the way Clint felt – hopefully still feels about him. Phil has never, ever wanted anything more in his life than the chance to make amends, to listen better, to appreciate the gift Clint had given him when he talked about himself, not just with words, but looks, touches, actions. Another chance to trust Clint in return, not just with his mind but with his heart this time. He is so, so tired of living a life for rent. 

For Christ’s sake, _how_ could he have been deluding himself for so long? He’d told Clint about his childhood, the screaming pain of the nearly irreparable fight he’d had with his father in the wake of his mother’s death, a byproduct of a mugging gone wrong. A fight that wasn’t even about the right things, just the things that would hurt the most when they were hurled at the person you loved and who loved you more than the world. He’d told Clint of how he’d ran as fast and as far as he could from his Midwestern roots – all the way out to sea, to the other end of the world. He’d become a Marine because it was easier than going home and facing his father again, because he still hadn’t trusted himself with a gun in his hand on domestic soil. 

Clint had smiled, face close enough that Phil could see how his eyes warmed, how the skin around them crinkled enticingly; close enough that he could have kissed it, if he’d dared. 

“So I ran away to the circus, and you ran away to sea,” Clint had said softly, empathy clear in his voice as he rubbed his thumb over Phil’s side, just under his heart. Phil had smiled back, huffed a laugh. 

“See, I did tell you I got more about you than you thought.”

Looking back at that particular conversation, a few inches and almost a year away from where Phil lies right now, he wants to go back and smack his younger self over the back of his head. _Idiot_. He wants so much to make up for his many and varied screw-ups where Clint is concerned – just doesn’t know if Clint will let him. If it’s not too late already; if Clint hasn’t had enough of his bullshit and washed his hands clean off of him.

He doesn’t know how he’s going to do that, though. He can’t ply him with gifts, he doesn’t want to _bribe_ Clint into a relationship; and anyway, things Clint needs, other people supply him with pretty efficiently (R &D) and too gleefully by half (Stark, damn it). What he wants is to show Clint that for him, Phil can learn to change the habits of a lifetime; that for _him_ , Phil can let others pick up the slack he usually tries to eliminate all by himself. He has a team now. It’s so strange to think of himself as part of the Avengers, but they have a pretty brick-over-the-head approach to indicating whom they are closing ranks around, and Phil has been given to understand in no uncertain terms that he is considered firmly on Their Side of the line. So, he can, and should, learn to trust them with his own little world as well as the one at large.

He doesn’t have to wait long for the opportunity to present itself; he never does, anymore, unfortunately for Fury’s blood pressure. It’s not even a week later that Hawkeye’s position is compromised when his nest gets taken out and he gets dumped back on the street, blinking in the face of two fish-type aliens with mouths full of stiletto-sharp teeth.

“Ho crap,” Hawkeye says faintly, and of course, _of course_ Phil’s first instinct is to rush over there and shoot the threat right in the face. He must twitch, or make an aborted movement, because Hawkeye (who now has visual on his position), even while being menaced by cod-headed monsters, swivels his head abruptly and pins him in place with his glare. A glare that says, “stay the fuck back,” and “I will shoot you myself if you try any of that shit,” and an edge of something else Phil can’t even hope to identify at this distance.

Phil considers his options while Hawkeye turns back and shoots his attackers through their throats, and then their heads, aim no less staggeringly accurate for the hip draw. He is still worryingly exposed, and Phil still wants to march over there, press his back to Clint’s and take the fuck down anything that even _thinks_ about having him in its sights—

But. He has to consider the possibility that Clint does not want him in that position any longer, and not just because he’s pissed. Maybe all the avoidance has been aimed more at cutting whatever bond persists between them than revenge. He has no way of knowing, and he has learned better than to make assumptions about what Clint of all people might be thinking.

And if this isn’t the case, if (please, god) the reverse is true, then Phil charging over there won’t achieve anything other than put him in danger, too, and ruin Hawkeye’s concentration by giving him another thing to watch out for. 

Fine. They’ll do it Clint’s way.

“Iron Man, at your eight o’clock. Hawkeye needs a lift.”

“Uh, Dispatch, I’m a little busy right now. ETA two and a half minutes.”

“Should be fine,” Phil concedes over the roar of the Hulk being bitten on his leg by the bigger cousin of the creatures that Hawkeye had disposed of, and the blast of Iron Man’s repulsors.

“Control, this is Cap. Does Hawkeye need assistance? He’s not answering his comm.”

Phil looks over, catches Hawkeye’s eye with an ease that will never not make him all warm and fuzzy inside, and taps his ear, lifting his eyebrows. Hawkeye shakes his head and mouths, “Gone.” Oh. So this hasn’t been Phil getting the silent treatment, after all. Good to know. He’d been—uh. It had made him wonder.

“He’s lost his comm unit, Cap. Repeat, Hawkeye has lost ears. I have visual on him, I can relay information and orders if necessary.”

“I’ll just bet you do,” Iron Man grunts, and Phil is suddenly intensely glad that Hawkeye’s comm is somewhere back amidst the remains of that roof. “Coming in for pick-up on his two, let him know?”

Phil points at his own eyes, and then in the direction of Iron Man’s distinctive vapour trail, which is coming in fast. Hawkeye nods, giving Phil a thumbs-up when he spots his ride. It’s smooth, effortless, and when Iron Man picks Hawkeye up and swings him right over Coulson’s position (because Stark is an _asshole_ who had poked and prodded at Phil until he’d admitted that there was no cellist, that it had been a story he’d made up for Pepper -- because he’d been frustrated, and sad, and missing Clint desperately while he was away on a mission, and he hadn’t been able to shake it since). Clint grins at him from overhead, wide and bright and a sight for sore eyes after close to three months of Phil going without seeing it, and, “Thank god,” Phil finds himself thinking, weak at the knees with relief. “Thank. God.”

If his voice is about a hundred times more cheerful after that, at least the others are too polite to comment, or attribute it to the satisfaction of a job well done.

It’s progress, but the situation is by no means resolved. After the battle is done and there are fish guts left all over New York to compliment her unique scent, Phil keeps getting called into what feels like every department SHIELD has, and asked increasingly ridiculous questions until he really does think he might snap and shoot someone. 

“I don’t see how I can help you with this particular species of alien’s dietary habits, apart from apparently having a taste for big green creatures that can stomp them flat,” he says, and only feels a little bad when the tech who had voiced the question shrinks back at the more-than-a-hint of menace in his voice.

“Sorry, Agent Coulson. I got carried away,” the tech – Michaels, Phil is pretty sure – admits, looking sheepishly at the floor. Okay, _now_ Phil feels like an asshole. It’s not like him to be this tetchy; it’s not fair to take out his frustration on other people, and he feels heartily ashamed of himself for letting it happen.

“Curiosity is always a trait encouraged in SHIELD’s science departments, Dr Michaels, but perhaps we can keep this discussion on topic?” he says, making a point to aim one of his bland, polite smiles at the man, the ones he keeps for moments just like this. The tech relaxes, and they wrap up the briefing in excellent time.

Thankfully, it’s the last time Phil’s presence is demanded, and he can finally find a moment to finish his report and leave for his apartment. He doesn’t always bother – especially of recent, when he knows he will find it dark and empty, devoid of blond motormouth love-of-his-life-s (oh god, he really did just think that thought, didn’t he? _Doomed._ ) Tonight, though, he just wants the comfort of his own shower, wants to play at denial just that bit longer, maybe use the shower gel Clint left behind when he packed the meagre few things he kept at Phil’s place and didn’t look back. Wants to pretend, just for a moment, that Clint is simply away on a mission and he’ll be back soon, back in Phil’s space, his arms, his bed.

He should eat, he knows, thinks about it after he comes back of said shower – which turned out to be a huge mistake, he doesn’t know _what_ he was thinking, the longing is worse than _ever_ \-- but he has spent the day hyped up on coffee and his stomach feels oddly full and empty at the same time. Besides, his bed is calling him soothingly, promising oblivion at last, and Phil just wants to close his eyes and imagine that the day had a different ending after the promise of the afternoon, anything other than this echoing loneliness, the same as all the nights before.

When the doorbell rings, he is in the process of tugging on the button-down top of his pyjamas and he is disinclined to change. Fuck the world, he is going to give whoever has decided it’s a good idea to bother him at eleven o’clock at night _such_ hell—

“Oh,” he says, without entirely meaning to, when he opens the door and finds Clint on the other side. Clint looks hesitant, with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched in.

“Can I come in?” he says, and Phil steps aside because he has no other answer, will never tell Clint ‘no’ about wanting to be close to him, if Phil can even hope for that emotion anymore.

Clint steps past him, looking around greedily, like he has missed the place – which is most likely Phil’s wishful thinking, because his place is nothing special, looks like it fell out of an IKEA catalogue. Phil likes the sparse furniture, the space, the feeling of _air_ , but that’s just him.

“I’m sorry I’m bothering you so late,” Clint starts, before Phil gives him a _look_ and he shuts his mouth with a click. He looks sheepish, dips his head as he concedes Phil’s wordless rebuke. Then he seems to brace himself for something, and lifts his eyes to Phil’s face.

“Okay, how about this: I’m sorry I’m so late.”

He doesn’t expound on that cryptic statement, merely stands there looking at Phil until Phil doesn’t know what he wants to do more, snap at him to explain or crowd him against the wall and relearn the taste of him in Phil’s mouth, the feel of his body under Phil’s hands.

“Look,” Clint says, and _this_ is one of the reasons Phil has always, will always admire this man: he faces his fears dead-on, marches into danger without a second’s thought if it’s the right thing to do, if he’s following his heart. “I know I was a dick to you. I know I—maybe didn’t handle the whole dying thing so well. But you can’t ever, ever, _ever_ doubt that I’m glad—no, that doesn’t even—I’m _so fucking grateful_ that you’re here, you made it.”

He—his voice actually breaks on the last few words, and Phil can’t bear it, not even for a moment. 

“I know that,” Phil says quickly, aching to reassure him. “I never doubted that.”

Clint makes an abortive movement forward, then looks like he’s holding himself back by sheer force of will. Phil doesn’t know what he can do, what he can say, to make him believe how much Phil hopes Clint still wants to touch him.

“Good,” Clint says hoarsely. “That’s—good. Because I know I screwed up here, but—god, Phil, I have never been so scared in my life as I was today.”

“T-today?” Phil stutters a little, confused. 

Clint nods, and crosses his arms over his middle, hugging himself unconsciously.

“Yeah. Last time, I didn’t even know you were gone until Nat told me, long after it was supposed to be a done deal. Today, I had to watch you actually think about throwing yourself in front of a pack of murderous ichthyologist bait; and I know that’s what you do, I know it’s your job and you’re fucking fantastic at it, but fuck me if it didn’t clean stop my heart in my chest.”

Clint stops and scrubs his hands over his face, his hair, before looking at Phil in wonder. “You stopped, though. You looked right at me, and you stopped, and you found another way to do your job that didn’t involve you risking yourself again, and I— _why_ , Phil? What changed, and how can I make it so it keeps happening?”

Phil sighs tiredly, and reaches out a hand, waiting, hoping that Clint might want to take it again. Clint, apparently, does – he catches it, clings to it, fingers lacing with Phil’s. They stand a foot apart, holding hands, in a moment out of time that Phil knows for a fact he will remember for the rest of his life. 

“You just have to be,” Phil says simply. “You just have to exist. You’re the only, the best reason I could have to want to stay here. Hopefully, with you.”

Clint lets out a near sob, uses the hand in Phil’s to reel him in until he can wrap strong, sure arms around Phil’s back and hold him tight enough that there’s no space left between their bodies.

“ _Of course_ with me, Jesus fucking Christ, did dying make you stupid? If _you_ still want to, you couldn’t chase me off with a stick, honestly, _how do you not know this?!_ ”

Phil chooses not to answer that – it’s pointless, and anyway his brain is too busy trying to memorise all over again every single detail about the way Clint’s body feels pressed to his, revelling in the familiarity of how they fit together so easily, just like they always had.

That night, Clint makes his best attempt yet to kill him with tenderness. Phil has never been touched like this, with such single-minded purpose, such care, like Clint is trying to convince him of how serious he is through his palms, the tips of his fingers, the slide of his nose over the inside of Phil’s thigh, like he’s trying to memorise the scent of his body. The act of Clint sliding inside him has never felt so poignant, harkened so strongly to submission and possession all at once. 

“I’m sorry, too,” Phil says, long after their mingled sweat has cooled on their skins, when Clint has his head pillowed on Phil’s breastbone and lies utterly pliant against Phil’s body, while Phil cards his fingers through the shockingly soft strands of his hair. Clint hums in question, languid and half-asleep already.

“I’m sorry I made you think that I wasn’t invested in this. You’re the one thing I can’t imagine my life without anymore, and I’m sorry it took me so long to admit it.”

Clint hums again, more pensive than quizzical this time. “Not even Captain America?” he drawls easily, a hint of teasing curling around the purr of his voice. 

Phil huffs out a smothered laugh. “Not even Captain America.”

Clint does move then, pushes up on one elbow and turns so his face hovers over Phil’s, his eyes half-lidded but clear.

“No more running,” he says gently, swiping his thumb across its favourite path, right under Phil’s heart.

“No more running,” Phil agrees. He’s done with that life, and if he has to dedicate the rest of his time on this plane to crafting himself into a port for Clint to always come back to, well. It’s a worthy pursuit to dedicate the coming years to. His own thumb traces the corner of Clint’s mouth, caresses the tiny lines etched to the side of it until Clint dips his head to find his lips, seal the deal. 

“Well,” Clint amends when Phil lets him go again. “Unless it’s with each other when Stark finally makes me snap, that’s still on the table, right? Because you know I got nerves of steel, but that bastard has diamond shoes on his hooves, he’s bound to wear through them eventually—“

And Phil? Phil really has no choice but to roll him over and kiss him breathless again.


End file.
